A Little Way

My poet friend David has made it a habit to share poems of truth and healing with co-workers and family members even when they "don't get it." I can't think of any better way of being a good-news-a-gist.*

David says, "I kept sending them poetry because I knew it went in . . . a little way."



*Literal meaning of "evangelist."

All-but-forgotten Hope

Today's post is from my other blog, but (shhhhh!) really belongs here!

Seems we never hear about hope anymore. What about it? Hope gets short shrift because it doesn't have the flashiness of faith or the fire of passion. It looks rather ordinary, pale and old-fashioned, and is confined to church pews and grandmothers' attics, gathering dust along with other once-admired jewels.

Hope has been shamed for its soft ways and quiet words. It says, "Some day," and "maybe," and "could."

But hope is what keeps people from dying inside. Hope sustains life. Hope endures change. Hope waits, when impatience and selfishness fight for first place in line.
Where faith is too loud or too bright, there is hope. Where faith cannot take root for shallow soil, there is hope.

Even in the rain, hope looks out the window. It hums a tune, counts falling stars. Without hope we would have apathy and despair. We would never try. We would never begin a thing. We would never consider what life could be.

We would leave miracles to giants of faith. We would never think to dream.

There is no such thing as false hope. Indeed, hope gentles the soul through endings just as much as beginnings. Without hope we could not turn off a light, close a door, or bury someone we love.

Hope lies low, stays out of trouble. You have to coax it out of hiding. But once you see it there standing by your side, you realize it has never left you, and never will.

What role has hope played in your life?

Clunk

Hear that? It's the sound of living. Life is clunky.

And it is all right.

It is a relief to assent to the clunkiness of life on Earth, where even a great and blessed thing isn't always great and blessed, whether it be a spouse, a child, a job, a friend, a house, a stomach to feed. This is an odd kingdom where a lover isn't always loverly, where a happy ending often circles back to a meagre beginning, and where even a dearest companion may let you down.

It rattles and clangs and clunks, this life. But it moves along. Breathe and go with it.

Stress Myth

Somehow I've gotten it into my head that I'm not being obedient or diligent if I'm not a little stressed out. The American way.

Well, that's just gotta go. When the whole world is in a panic, when society seems to require doing, overdoing, striving, and overstriving, God wants me in a place of peace. Whatever happens: unhurried, unpanicked. Care free.

What's your attitude toward that visitor, Stress? Like me, do you sometimes encourage it just a bit too much?

Broken Things, Part 2

I held the broken vase in my hands and searched for the seams. Surprisingly, the wings had broken off in pretty whole chunks. The first wing had lost one piece; the second wing had lost two. I started with the first wing, grasped broken wing-tip and reached for the Elmer's.

The directions said, Spread heavily - weight or clamp, wait 35 minutes. I squeezed on the glue, then wedged that piece into its original place.

And then I held it.

And held it.

I felt like Horton the Elephant sitting on his nest, patiently, obediently. There was nothing else remaining. The house was quiet and I was alone with my forlorn, once-beautiful work of art. I sat holding the piece in place, both my hands needed. I sat breathing, humming a little. I held the vase together - for 35 minutes.

I realized it's not the fixing that's difficult. It's the holding. None of us wants to have our hands tied up that long. It feels a bit wasteful and foolish when there are so many other things to be done.

But the piece held. And I went on with the next wing. Twice more I sat for half an hour, breathing, holding, waiting. At some point I realized what I was doing was a kind of prayer.

And that's all I need to do when a thing is broken. Sit. Wait. Hold. Breathe. Believe, if at all possible. Believe.

When a thing is broken, the question to ask is not: "Can it be fixed?" but:

"Who will hold the broken piece?"

Who will realize the value of what was once beautiful? Who will hold this thing lovingly, gently? Who will wait for it?

Who will hold the broken piece?

I found out my hands could do this thing, and I was as delighted with the repair as if I'd been the original artist. For there is a gift in this. A wholeness. A bird waiting to take wing.

Broken Things, Part 1

My daughter sculpted a tall, ceramic sea-green vase with a hummingbird perched on top. It sat on the kitchen table holding a spray of lilies, and we all admired it. Then one day in the bustle of living it was knocked over, and the hummingbird's graceful, rosy wings were broken.

We kept the vase and broken wings on a shelf. Every time I walked by, I felt a sense of loss. Could it be fixed? Probably not. If the wings were glued back on the bird, the vase would be too heavy and awkward to allow the broken pieces any support while drying.

Then one evening, home alone, I passed by the vase again and just knew I couldn't let it sit broken. I remembered how adults in my family long ago would fix the odd tea saucer or knick knack. They didn't use Superglue, or School Glue, or Glue with Glitter. No Blue Gel or fancy scented goo. What we had was "Elmer's Glue All." I hunted some up.

First Rule of Fixing Broken Things: You don't need a high-falutin' adhesive. You probably already have what it takes. And help is closer than you think.

Stress and Convenience

In life there are a lot of things we can't control - and so we worry. But what about the things we can control? What about the clutter that is entirely unnecessary? When our minds our full of trivia, doesn't that promote a sense of overwhelmedness?

Three weeks ago, my cell phone contract expired, and I decided to try living without it. What I felt, almost immediately: less stress. No worrying what that missed call was. No groping for the phone while in the check-out line. No wondering whether I'd left my phone on in a class or a meeting. Shopping, errands, car drives, began to feel more calm, focused. There was a new quality wherever I went: the quality of silence.

Many of our conveniences ultimately add to stress rather than take it away. The technology that enables me to always be reached, always be available, can also make me feel vulnerable and prone to interruptions.

The idea of always being available is an illusion anyway. We all have moments when we can't answer the phone, or hold one more thing in our hands, or stop a conversation, or ignore the highway on which we're driving.

And being more "available" can also mean being more exposed. I see this with my Internet connection. I can always be reached by email, but I can't always respond, and checking my mail when I don't have time to reply simply makes me feel bogged down. Through Facebook and my blog - my thoughts are out there, available to everyone. But are my thoughts available to me?

As a sensitive, creative individual (and I do think creatives tend to be more sensitive), I need time outs from such exposure. Confirming this, I've noticed that weekends at our new cabin - without Internet - give me a sense of protection, of breathing room. I don't have to talk to the whole world, and it doesn't have to talk to me.

To be honest, it's hard for me to kick these fun little buzzy little habits of connectivity. I could use the alibi that I need these things. That I or my kids might have emergencies, for one thing. But what I realize is: the most urgent thing is to be calm and present. That is the greatest protection against emergencies. (And I do check phone messages when I'm away from the phone during a school day.)

So now I'm wondering, what are the other stresses in my life disguised as conveniences? What else can I train myself to cut down on?

I'll keep you posted. (Unless I'm offline, that is.)